


Never Made it with Moderation

by crushcandles



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, M/M, Second Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22172575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushcandles/pseuds/crushcandles
Summary: They're out back of the inn, next to the rain barrel and scrub brush, scrabbling at each other. Inside there's a raucous song being sung so loud it's coming out of the corners and cracks, but the only thing Geralt is listening to is Jaskier's hectic breathing and his rabbit-fast heart.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 48
Kudos: 897





	Never Made it with Moderation

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [candybarrnerd](https://candybarrnerd.tumblr.com/)/[icarusinflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight) for the 🔥🔥🔥 enabling and the kind and fast beta. Title from [Moderation](https://youtu.be/d6qfN0Qlgxw) by Florence + The Machine.

They're out back of the inn, next to the rain barrel and scrub brush, scrabbling at each other. Inside there's a raucous song being sung so loud it's coming out of the corners and cracks, but the only thing Geralt is listening to is Jaskier's hectic breathing and his rabbit-fast heart. His breath and pulse jump when Geralt bites the hot skin tucked behind his thick collar. 

They came to the inn because after Geralt got his payment for killing the wyvern that's been terrorizing the villagers, Jaskier wanted to take his turn at earning some coin. He had a new song he wanted to sing and see how common people liked it. That had gone well, certainly helped by the morbid mixture of villagers drinking to mourn the loss of their friends and family members and those drinking in celebration of the wyvern being dead.

They're out back of the inn because Geralt dragged Jaskier there, tired of the strange game they've been playing for the better part of a month. Since the strange madness that overtook them on the riverbank after the drowner attack, things have been playful and tense in turns. Jaskier, who already sometimes used _he_ when he spoke of his past conquests, took to changing how he sang his songs on the road, crooning slyly to Geralt only about cocks and hairy chests instead of cunts and supple necks. But then he flirted in a ridiculous, overwrought fashion with any people they encountered on the road and self-consciously hid the bite high on his neck that Geralt had given him, avoiding Geralt’s eyes while he did it.

He hadn't been flirting tonight. He'd been flushed with pride at the reception his song had received, accepting coin, compliments, and a sloshing cup of ale. He'd been smiling, still breathing hard, colour high in his face, and it had struck Geralt just how much Jaskier looked the same as he had when he’d had a broken branch clutched in his hands, both it and him wet with drowner blood. Turned out it was just as easy to drag him outside as it had been to pull him down onto the wet riverbank.

Jaskier’s turned-out thigh tenses as he pushes his hips into Geralt's. His silky trousers rasp over Geralt’s breeches, catching and bunching. Rutting with clothes on is for children or people with small imaginations, so Geralt starts pulling his own shirt out of his breeches, working at the rows of buttons.

"Uh-huh," Jaskier gasps in agreement. He starts in on his own clothing, clawing at the fastening on the fancy trousers he’d picked out maybe in some hope of swaying some hearts tonight. 

Geralt's untucked and unbuttoned before Jaskier, which gives him time to return to the bite on Jaskier’s neck. This one is lower down than the last one, neatly where Jaskier's neck turns to shoulder, safe from curious eyes unless Jaskier's bathing or fucking. When Geralt licks it, he can feel the print of his own teeth on Jaskier with his tongue. The bite feels deep enough that Jaskier could have complained about it hurting, but he hasn’t, and he didn't last time either. When they had been alone on the road, and until it had faded, Jaskier had touched the mark on his neck when he didn’t know Geralt could see him. There’s only one way to get him to do that again, so Geralt bites him, digging in until Jaskier whimpers and pushes him away. 

He goes, which leaves Jaskier enough space to drop to his knees in the dirt, bootheels up against the building. 

"Fuck," Geralt says at the thought of it. They didn't do this on the riverbank, but a mouth so loved for its singing surely must have other talents. He shuffles close again, looking down. 

Jaskier’s hands are loose on his own thighs and his mouth is already open, his tongue sticking out. He has his eyes closed. Tight, pinched shut, like someone is making him close them. He smells aroused, sweaty and sweet, and Geralt can see the line of his hard cock in his trousers, but his tongue is trembling faintly. 

Geralt puts his hand on Jaskier's shoulder, keeping his fingers soft on the fine fabric. 

"Open your eyes," he tells Jaskier. 

To his credit, Jaskier does it without hesitation, and looks Geralt straight in the face. In the low light, his eyes are clear and attentive. 

"You want this?" Geralt asks gruffly. His breeches are slowly slipping down his ass. It doesn't matter. He can pick them back up if he needs to. 

"Wha?" Jaskier says, dry-tongued. He puts his tongue back in his mouth to wet it and tries again. "Yes, of course. Why do you ask?" 

Geralt closes his eyes to listen and take a deep breath. Jaskier's heartbeat is up, but not how it is when he scrambles away from something he's scared of and he still smells good, body-salt and sour-honey tang. 

Opening his eyes, going for the slumped waistband of his breeches, Geralt says, "Just wanted to hear you say it. Open up." 

Jaskier's jaw drops again. His tongue stays curled inside this time, but it still looks deeply inviting. Geralt gets his breeches down and takes his cock in hand.

There’s a long moment where Jaskier just drinks the sight of Geralt’s cock in. Finally, he closes his mouth to swallow, and opens it to say, with some wonder: “Bless me, I forgot the size of it.” Geralt catches him before he’s quite done talking, so his mouth is already moving when Geralt guides his cock in, which is the true wonder. 

Geralt pushes his cock in until his first finger touches Jaskier's lips. The inside of Jaskier's mouth is hot but even with Jaskier's swallow, his mouth is still dry, tongue rough on the underside of Geralt's prick. The sensation is so good Geralt feels it all the way up his spine but he still pulls back out to give Jaskier a chance to do this properly.

Using a practiced sleight of hand, Jaskier takes Geralt's cock from him, giving it a twisting stroke and then pulls Geralt back in by the prick. This time Jaskier's mouth is wetter, his tongue smooth and curled into a curve for Geralt's cock to slide into. He sucks and Geralt fists his hand, hitting the wall once. It's too rowdy inside the inn for anyone to have heard. Still, Geralt makes himself drop his hands, away from Jaskier even though it’s been weeks since he’s had been this free to touch.

Jaskier’s quick to find a rhythm he seems to like: smooth strong sucks of his mouth mixed with tight, tugging strokes of his hand. He holds Geralt’s thigh with his other hand, squeezing sometimes. 

If pressed, Geralt would have guessed that a man like Jaskier would be given to teasing in this realm: using loose wrists and a tongue that moves too much. But he’s going after Geralt’s cock like it’s the song he’s working on: again and again and again, making minute changes to find what works. 

“Dammit,” Geralt groans, struggling to stay still and standing on his shaky knees. Helpless, his hands find Jaskier’s shoulders, holding on too tightly.

“Mmhmm.” Geralt wasn’t looking for a response, but this one wraps around his cock like another tongue. Geralt closes his eyes and bares his teeth to the wall.

Jaskier moans again, caught by something that makes his hand and mouth falter in their movements. When Geralt looks to make sure he’s alright, he can see Jaskier’s other hand moving quickly in his trousers. Jaskier’s mouth still has Geralt’s cock in it, but it’s wide open now, Geralt’s cock just resting on his tongue. Jaskier moans at the touch of his own hand and it gusts over Geralt’s wet cock, sending a shiver racing along it.

Taking pity on them both, Geralt slips his wet cock out of Jaskier’s mouth, stroking it with his dry hand.

“I can do both,” Jaskier slurs, but he’s slack-mouthed, his eyes half-shut. He pushes his trousers down his hips so his cock is out, flushed red and swaying, but that takes the work of two hands and he’s clumsy at it. 

“Finish yourself first,” Geralt tells him, and puts one hand on Jaskier’s face. He touches the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, and then inside it. “But give me your tongue back.”

Geralt draws his thumb down, dragging Jaskier's tongue out with it. He strokes his thumb down the soft centre of it once, and then replaces his thumb with his cock. He draws his cock up over the same line, from the flexing tip of Jaskier’s tongue to the thickest part of it. He does it again, and again, stroking his cock over Jaskier's tongue, hot in the cold night air, while Jaskier works his own cock with his fist. 

His cock starts leaking when Jaskier starts making noise, whiny little whimpers in his throat. He rubs that over Jaskier’s tongue too, even picking up his cock and lightly slapping it down against Jaskier’s tongue to hear the sticky sound it makes.

He looks down to see how Jaskier is holding out and meets Jaskier's dark eyes. Jaskier groans, pressing his tongue hard against Geralt's prick. The hand around his cock is moving quickly, making that distinctive skin-on-skin sound. His smell is so strong now, filling the air, clouding Geralt’s head. 

Mostly, Geralt can only hear the sounds of his own blood billowing in his veins and Jaskier's hand working his own cock and his mouth on Geralt's, but his senses are fine-tuned enough to hear the bang of the door to the inn, sloppy steps down the stairs accompanied by the mutterings of a distracted drunkard.

"Be back, Jesca," a man mumbles. "Jus' gotta piss." 

Geralt concentrates on the sound of the man's stumbles, trying to chart the weaving course without taking his hand off his cock. Jaskier licks him a little, still focused; he can't hear what Geralt can. To be safe, Geralt passes over his hand over Jaskier's sweaty forehead, getting a handful of that foppish hair of his so Jaskier won't go anywhere.

The man's footsteps are aimless, and he's only speaking nonsense. There's no telling whether or not he could even see straight enough to know what he'd be seeing if he came around to the back. And what _would_ he see? The witcher of song making good use of the travelling bard's mouth? What would that matter? Geralt's heard the whispers; people believe _this_ is why Jaskier can't keep Geralt's name off his tongue.

The footsteps pause, still on the other side of the inn. The man curses, and Geralt hears the sound of urine hitting the wall. Below him, Jaskier whimpers, tongue drawing back.

He doesn't speak, just leans his forehead into Geralt's knuckles, spreading his knees as far as his crumpled trousers will let him. He goes stiff-necked against Geralt’s hand, and Geralt hears him come: his soft moan, his hammering heartbeat, even the faint patter of his spend hitting the dirt between Geralt's boots. The man could be gone back inside, or carried by some new creature; Geralt doesn't know nor care, not when he can focus on Jaskier twisting between his own hand and Geralt's instead.

He should wait for Jaskier to catch his breath, but Geralt feels consumed by the same feeling he had on the riverbank that had made him push Jaskier onto his hands and knees. Half-mad, he brackets Jaskier’s thighs with his boots so he can get his cock back into Jaskier’s mouth, shoving deep. Jaskier chokes around Geralt, his throat convulsing. Geralt groans, wanting more of that badly, but he pulls out anyway.

He doesn’t get far. Jaskier coughs as he gets both hands on Geralt’s ass to yank him back. They meet again and this time Jaskier sucks him down.

Geralt curses. There’s so much heat and power swirling through him he feels more than half-mad already. He puts his forearms and forehead to the wall to try and steady himself. He’s sure he couldn’t touch Jaskier without hurting him, so he only uses his hips to fuck Jaskier’s wet mouth. Jaskier holds onto him, nails digging in, one of his palms warm and wet on Geralt’s ass. He’s drooling. It wasn’t this wet the last time Geralt was with a woman. 

He didn’t drag Jaskier out here, behind the inn, with the intention of being rough with him. Last time, the first time, they’d been rough with each other, like two wild dogs. Even Jaskier, so perfumed and soft, had bitten and clawed at Geralt and never flinched, not even when Geralt had flipped him over and fucked him.

Now he’s making shocked noises every time Geralt grinds over his tongue, but he’s holding on, tugging, moaning if Geralt gives him enough space to draw a breath. Geralt hardly does, too intent on pounding into Jaskier’s mouth to give him any air. One of Jaskier’s hands, cupped over Geralt’s ass, finds the split of it, stroking there, and Geralt goes string-tight, his hips bowing back.

He gets his hand around the throbbing base of his cock, desperate to find his self-control. But all it serves to do is ensure the first shot from his cock hits Jaskier’s outstretched tongue dead-centre. Geralt grunts at the sight of it, murky white over the dark pink. His body remembers what it’s like to come in Jaskier, and Geralt’s too far gone to resist that greedy animal instinct. He stuffs his cock back into Jaskier’s mouth, to the back of his throat, choking Jaskier with it. 

He can feel Jaskier’s nose pressing into his belly and his deep swallows of what Geralt’s giving him, but all he can hear is his own rough sounds, nothing from Jaskier. He pinches his eyes shut, like someone is making him, but his mind brings him a glass-clear image anyway: Jaskier, both ends of him open for Geralt’s cock.

Geralt stays in Jaskier’s mouth until he’s sure he’s spent everything, until Jaskier claws at the cheek of his ass for mercy. His cock comes out hot and dripping even though Jaskier swallowed. His thighs and belly tremble from holding his position for so long. He staggers back, going for his breeches, hauling them up over his hips. Everything from his brain to his fingers is too stupid to tackle the buttons, so that will have to do. 

Last time, he rolled to his back in the cold grass. Tonight, he puts his back to the dusty wall of the inn and slides down until he’s shoulder-to-shoulder with Jaskier. This close, he can smell the saltiness on Jaskier’s breath as he gasps.

The people inside, they start singing a new song. The one Jaskier sang to them earlier. Even through the wall, Geralt can tell that the cadence isn't quite the same as when Jaskier sings it. But it's not far off, especially good for a roomful of drunkards that's only heard it played the once. It'll be popular. Jaskier should be proud.

Geralt's heard it a hundred times already, played at his back or by his side on the road, and sung most nights by the fire, so it's easy for him to catch the tune. Feeling satisfied to his bones, Geralt hums a few notes while Jaskier, raw-mouthed, tries to catch his breath, unable to even speak, let alone sing.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [crushcandles](https://crushcandles.tumblr.com/)


End file.
